


we've made it this far, kid

by killerqueenwrites



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Gen, Headaches & Migraines, Hugs, Platonic Cuddling, Teen for some language, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, because peter is like a sleepy cat, head scritches, it's snuggle time, quarantine is getting to me can you tell, wee bit of whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24029383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killerqueenwrites/pseuds/killerqueenwrites
Summary: “Peter is very sensitive to light and sound at the moment.” God, FRIDAY’s trying her best, but it still makes him whimper, clench his fists. “I believe it’s a migraine.”
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 34
Kudos: 504





	we've made it this far, kid

**Author's Note:**

> this is so so late but when am i ever on time for things lmao
> 
> for jess, @gay-in-221b, the other half of my brain cell, the bane of my existence, where would i be without you? (far more behind on my bingo card than i am already, probably.) i can’t believe i’ve spoken to you every day for a year and you don’t hate me yet. truly amazing 💕
> 
> and everyone else, i hope you’ve enjoyed this sudden burst of productivity, because this is the last thing you’re getting before i disappear off the face of the earth for a uni deadline crunch. peace out
> 
> title is from migraine by twenty one pilots because i'm hilarious

_“Kid, on your six!”_

Peter ducks just as a blast of energy shoots over his head. He thinks he’d already started moving, half-aware of the danger in the back of his mind, but he rolls with the movement anyway. “I’m good!”

_“I’ve heard that before,_ ” Mr Stark grumbles.

Peter snorts, webbing the gun and yanking it away from the man holding it. “Yoink!”

_“Christ, kid.”_

“Oops, finders keepers!” He shoots another web, this one pinning the man against the wall. “Another one down, Mr Stark!”

_“Good job.”_

Peter would clean up a thousand messes caused by the Vulture’s leftover weapons if he could keep hearing that note of pride in Mr Stark’s voice.

Karen highlights something in his viewscreen, drawing his attention to something on street level: a man peering out from an alley, sheltering from the fight. When Peter swings down towards him, he ducks, backing further away from the street.

“Sir, are you okay? You might wanna get out of here–“

“Hi, Spider-Man. Long time, no see.”

Peter’s senses, on constant alert at the moment anyway, spike with a warning. “Um, do I know you? I’m sorry, you look kinda familiar, but you might just have one of those faces, y’know?”

“It’s been, oh, a few months. There was a whole thing. You got my boss arrested, lost me my job.”

“Mr Stark?” Peter says. “I got one of them down here.” Silence. “Mr Stark?”

“Uh-oh. No Iron Man to save you?” The man pulls out a device that looks like some strange mix between a gun and a torch. “Got a little dead zone set up here, just in case Stark comes along to interrupt us.”

Hair prickles on the back of Peter’s neck. He raises his hands, fingers poised on his webshooters, ready to fight. “Put that down, sir.”

The man smirks. “No.”

Peter sees the light a split-second before the sound hits his ears. It’s strobe lighting, erratic flashes, so bright it hits him even with his eyes screwed closed. And the _sound_ …

It’s agony.

Peter throws one arm up to shield his eyes, trying to block out the high-pitched shriek that seems to be coming from everywhere. His other arm shoots out, fingers firing webs at lightning speed. It’s not deliberate, not in the slightest – it’s sheer desperation, self-preservation above all else, because he can’t hear anything, can’t see anything, he can’t fucking _think_ –

It stops all at once. He chances a look through one half-open eye. He’s webbed the man to the alley wall, somehow – luck rather than judgement. The device is in shattered pieces on the ground. Through the ringing in his ears, he can make out both Karen and Mr Stark trying to get hold of him.

_“–Peter, I swear to God, answer me_ right now _–“_

Mr Stark using his full name is enough to shock Peter back to awareness. “I’m fine, I’m good.”

Mr Stark sighs, a rush of static over the comms _. “Where the hell did you go?”_

“Some guy.” Peter wrinkles his nose, blinking away the fading shadows of the light. “He jammed the comms for a minute. I webbed him up. It’s all good.”

_“Hm,”_ Mr Stark says, but he doesn’t question him further. _“We’re about done here, so I’m calling Happy to come pick us up. We’ve earned burgers. You don’t have any major injuries, do you? Nothing that might light the gossip columns up in flames? ‘Tony Stark violently abuses young, adorable, puppy-eyes intern who would clearly never hurt a fly–‘“_

“Mr Stark,” Peter interrupts, the sound of his voice inexplicably grating on him. “I told you I’m fine.”

_“All right, kid. Cops are on their way. Hap’s nearly here with our food. Stop skulking in that alley.”_

Peter does as he’s told. Evening sunlight hits him as soon as he steps out onto the sidewalk, makes him wince and shield his eyes. Mr Stark lands beside him; the whine of his suit pierces the relative quiet.

“You sure you’re all right, kid?”

“Hm?” It takes Peter a second to register the question. His head is starting to hurt, the way it does when he’s stayed up late to do work and ended up staring at a laptop screen for hours. “Oh. Yeah, fine. Just a headache. Might head home.”

“Or we could wait for Happy and he could drive us upstate?” Mr Stark says. “It’s Friday anyway. Weekend at the Compound?”

“Sounds good if May’s fine with it.” Peter rubs his temples, then the back of his neck.

“You _sure_ you’re okay?”

“Yeah, just a bit stiff.”

“Stiff and a headache? Early night for you.”

“Yeah.”

“Yikes, you’re not even arguing? Who are you and what have you done with Peter Parker?”

“I’m good,” Peter insists, “just tired.”

* * *

He puts his earphones in for the drive but doesn’t play any music, just closes his eyes and tries to will the blooming headache away. Mr Stark radiates concern the whole time, sneaking glances, pulling up reports from Karen on his phone when he thinks Peter’s not looking.

“Want to work in the lab before dinner?” Mr Stark asks when they pull up, and _yikes_ , he’s loud.

“Um…” Peter ducks his head, wishes he had a pair of sunglasses handy. “Might just have a nap. If that’s okay.”

“‘Course. You’ve earned it.” Mr Stark pins him with a look that Peter can’t quite translate. “You did good today, kid.”

“Thanks.”

“Proud of you.”

Any other day, Peter would have smiled so wide his cheeks would hurt. Now it probably looks closer to a grimace as he turns and traipses to his room. The room that belongs to him. His bedroom in the Avengers Compound. Madness.

It’s only when he reaches his room and collapses face first on his bed that he realises he hadn’t eaten his burger.

* * *

Peter can hear everything. Every goddamn thing. Heels clacking floors away. The supposedly silent Quinjet taking off. The landing pad quivering with the force of its jets. Someone laughing. He moans and pulls his pillow over his ears.

_“Is everything all right, Peter?”_

“Fuck,” he gasps. His head _hurts_ , all down the back of his neck and the left side of his head and his ears and his face like it’s all being squeezed in a vice–

_“My apologies.”_ FRIDAY’s voice is a little quieter. He still wants to cry at every word. _“Is there anything I can do to help?”_

“Can you soundproof these rooms?”

_“Of course.”_

Beautiful silence. For a moment, it’s bliss, until he realises he has nothing to focus on except the ringing in his ears.

_“Is that better, Peter?”_

He groans, shoving his face into his pillow, hard. The pressure relieves the pounding in his head a little, but all he can hear is the rush of blood in his ears, his own frantic breaths. Everything _hurts_.

_“Peter, your vitals indicate–“_

“Please shut the fuck up,” he rasps, then, “Sorry.”

_“Apologies, Peter,”_ FRIDAY says, even quieter _. “Mr Stark is on his way.”_

“No–“

“Pete?” Mr Stark’s voice sends a fresh wave of pain through his skull. He’s cracked the door, and Peter can hear every sound in the universe again – even the fucking arc reactor that powers the building, the one that’s supposed to be completely silent. “Fri said–“

_“Peter is very sensitive to light and sound at the moment.”_ God, FRIDAY’s trying her best, but it still makes him whimper, clench his fists. _“I believe it’s a migraine.”_

Mr Stark opens the door a little wider to let himself in, and it’s like a spotlight shining directly into Peter’s eyes: bright, blinding. He crosses the room to the bed, each step a gunshot, both better and worse than the white noise of his ears ringing. At least the door is closed, the room soundproofed once again.

“Oh, kid. Come here,” Mr Stark breathes, and he’s climbing into bed beside Peter, gently cradling his head, finding a comfortable spot for it in his lap. Just like before, the pressure helps, and Peter finds a soft, regular sound to hone in on: Mr Stark’s heartbeat is slow and comforting, helping to calm Peter’s breathing.

The pain is almost bearable.

Careful fingers make their way into Peter’s hair, massage his scalp in a circular motion. They move to his temples, behind his ears, to the back of his neck, soothing away the built-up tension.

Mr Stark doesn’t say a word, and Peter can’t begin to articulate how grateful he is for that. He just is, just there. Peter closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

* * *

He blinks awake, disoriented at first, unaware of how much time has passed. There’s still a hand resting on his head, cool and soothing. Mr Stark holds up his phone – on dark mode, thank God – so Peter can read the typed-out words. _You feel up to eating?_

Like fuck does Peter feel up to eating. Even daring to contemplate the idea sends nausea rolling around his stomach. He shakes his head – a mistake, as it turns out.

Mr Stark nods and types _Brb_ before carefully extricating himself and climbing off the bed. Peter closes his eyes just in time before the door opens, but the light still hits behind his eyelids.

It seems like no time at all before Mr Stark is back and slipping through the door with a glass in his hand. Peter squints.

“Flat soda,” Mr Stark whispers. Maybe it’s wishful thinking, but the sound doesn’t seem as painful as it had before. “Get your blood sugar up, at least.”

Peter can smell the sugar, the artificial flavours, and he nearly gags, but manages to force down a few sips.

“Atta boy.” And Mr Stark’s climbing back into his bed, expensive shoes abandoned on the floor, clothes rumpled.

“Oh. Um…” Peter swallows. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I know.” But he doesn’t leave.

Peter, feeling like pure shit and therefore utterly shameless, wriggles around until he’s comfortable. This happens to be with his head pillowed on Mr Stark’s torso, hands looped behind the man’s back. Mr Stark’s breathing stutters and he freezes, as if in shock, but slowly, in increments, relaxes, hugs Peter back. It’s warm and safe, so he allows himself to slide away, Mr Stark’s heart thudding softly in his ears.

* * *

The next time he wakes up, his senses are no longer being assaulted by the world around him, which is always a plus. Mr Stark’s hand is rubbing gently up and down his back, although he stops when he notices Peter’s awake.

“Hey, welcome back. How you feeling?”

“Better. Still got a headache, but hearing noise doesn’t feel like being shot in the head, so…yeah. Better, thanks.”

“Good. That’s good.” Mr Stark sighs. “Sorry I didn’t have painkillers on hand. I’ll get Helen to make super-strength spidey drugs a priority.”

“‘S’okay. You helped.”

Mr Stark brushes Peter’s hair off his forehead, a careful movement that helps dissolve the gathered tension there. “Good to hear. Imagine if I’d made it worse.” He pauses. “It was that guy yesterday, wasn’t it? The one you webbed up with surprising enthusiasm.”

“Or desperation. He had a…strobe light thingy and it made this high-pitched noise.”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Mr Stark says. “How sensitive is your hearing? Can you hear things that should be supersonic – beyond the range of human hearing? What about colours–?” He stops. “Sorry, you’re not a lab rat.”

“Maybe that’s why it hurt so much, though,” Peter says thoughtfully. “It was so loud, and Karen tried but she can only filter so much. I was shooting blind for a minute.”

“And you got him anyway. Not a scratch on him. Nice work, kid.”

“Thanks.”

“Good thing you stopped that device, too. If it was meant to incapacitate you, who knows what could’ve happened?”

“Mm.”

“I know you’re probably tired, but how about food? Like toast, saltines, plain pasta, that kind of thing. Saved your burgers, too, and all your fries. Happy tried to sneak some, but I put a stop to that.”

“You have no idea how good plain pasta sounds right now.”

“Room service coming right up,” Mr Stark says, once again clambering out of the bed. “Plain pasta, for the young sir, just a touch of butter.”

“Mr Stark?”

“Yes, Underoos?”

“Thank you. For, like…being here. It helped. A lot.”

Mr Stark smiles, soft and fond, and ruffles Peter’s hair. “Anytime, Itsy-Bitsy. But for everyone’s sake, learn the meaning of the word fine. I don’t want to hear you’re fine if something like that happens. Being targeted in the middle of a fight does not mean you’re ‘all good’.”

“Stop lecturing me,” Peter mumbles, and pulls his covers up to his chin. “I have a migraine.”

“You can’t use that excuse forever.”

Peter draws his eyebrows up, makes the most pitiful face he can possibly manage.

“But it’s working for now. Manipulative child. Do you think you’ll be able to survive by yourself for ten minutes while I cater to your every whim?”

“Hmm, just about.”

“All right.” Another gentle touch, to Peter’s head, his shoulder. “Let FRIDAY know if you need anything. And finish your gross flat soda. Jarvis used to swear by it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr Stark hesitates for a second longer. “Don’t ever worry about asking me for help, Webs, okay? I don’t mind helping you. I _want_ to help you. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“Good.” Another pause. “Glad you’re okay, kid. You scared me for a minute.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that, doesn’t know what to do in the face of sudden openness, so he ducks his head and tries to hide his smile.

“Stop it.”

“What?”

“You’re laughing at me.”

“I’m _happy_.”

“You’re a little weirdo, is what you are,” Mr Stark mutters as he leaves, the words laced with fondness.

“But what would you do without me?” Peter calls. “Where would you be?”

“God knows.”

“Hey, _you_ instigated this. You showed up in my apartment. I’m entirely your problem now. Deal with it.”

“God, I’m gonna have to. Wish I’d known what I was getting into. Every day is a living nightmare.”

Peter sticks his tongue out.

“Mature.”

“You made me your problem,” Peter reminds him.

“Yeah, yeah. Get some sleep, you heathen.”

“Aww, you really do care!”

Mr Stark leaves the door open so Peter can hear him muttering all the way down the corridor. When he gets back with a bowl of steaming pasta, Peter’s still laughing.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on tumblr @akillerqueenwrites or @akillerqueenyouare. i also have a twitter, @killerqueenao3, if any of you want to talk to me there (it's mostly pictures of my dog). thank you for reading!


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